the infinite inkblot
by angels entwined
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a girl, a boy, and a paper crane. Now it's after the war, and as the boy sits down to write, the girl is gone. He prepares for the paper crane to be gone, too. / Letter format. Written for Sara's birthday. Oneshot.


_So. . .originally, I had something different for both the Caesar's Palace May Oneshot Challenge and Sara's (MockingjayWithFangs) birthday, but I was too uninspired to finish either and came up with this._

_Italics means what Gale is doing/thinking. Everything else is the letter; I hope the format's not too confusing._

_The prompt was paper cranes. Happy birthday, Sara! I don't own THG._

* * *

Dear Madge,

_I stopped and scratched my chin with the pen. "Dear Madge" seemed too formal, so I crossed it out. Madge might be a townie, but she wasn't a princess._

Madge,

I'm finally writing you a letter. It's odd to write to a dead person, but I guess with the Nightlock Rebellion finished, it's probably not the weirdest thing I've ever done.

I'll admit it—I'm not the best at "spilling out my soul" and all that stuff, or else I would have told Katniss how I felt ages ago. I'm a little glad I didn't, though, since I wouldn't let myself love you then.

Can you let yourself love someone?

_I paused, not knowing what to say, but knowing I had more to say. It just wouldn't come. I realized that ink was pooling onto the paper and jerked my hand back._

I came over to your house a lot more than Katniss thought I did. I didn't have anyone else to turn to, and you knew what was happening: the rebellion, Katniss, Peeta. . .wow, I was desperate. Besides, I owed you for the morphling, and no one in the Seam likes being indebted. So I gave you my company, as lousy as it probably was.

Remember when we made paper cranes, as white as the piano keys you were always tapping when I came over? I thought you were obsessed with that piano; I never understood why Katniss cared about it.

You knew I wasn't one for art, but you didn't listen. That surprised me a little, because all the townies were (are?) supposed to be ridiculously polite, maybe too much. So you dragged me to your room and showed me the folding process. I kept folding them the wrong way, and by the end of the day, your wastebasket was overflowing. At least I'd managed to make it decently, though.

If you've ever made a snare—well, no, you haven't—it's just as artful as some paper crane, probably more so. It's complex. So I remember feeling kind of silly it took so long just to shape a bit of paper.

_I still felt silly. _

_The inkblots were pooling on the paper again, but this time, I didn't bother to try clean it. It only left smudges, and Madge wouldn't mind._

Okay, I'm talking to a dead person, but aren't we all? No one cares because they're all talking to dead people. There's so many of them, Madge.

I don't think we ever had it officially anything. It's not like we kissed. I doubt we so much as touched. That actually would have been pretty strange for you. Still, we could _feel _it, and

_The pen snapped, and some of the words blurred over. As if Madge could read it anyway. I muttered angrily to myself as I searched for a new pen._

I liked you. You were like Katniss—quiet, wary of life, but also different. Katniss didn't (doesn't) care about art or complexity. She just aims the arrow and fires. You took the time to understand it.

Did you ever like me?

_I scowled at the paper, eyebrows drawing downwards. Time for another subject._

I moved to District Two. It's okay here—different after the rebellion. Careers don't seem to exist anymore, but the people remain pretty brutal. That's okay to me. They're tough, and they'll always survive.

Paylor's the president now. Did you know District Thirteen was real? Paylor was one of the rebels, but Katniss shot the person supposed to be president. And Snow's dead now, too. I heard Katniss is going to marry Peeta soon.

I don't really feel jealous. I don't belong to District Twelve anymore, Madge. You don't count as part of it.

_Because you're dead, I thought. It was getting hard to let go of ghosts._

_Inkblots were blooming across the paper every few sentences now._

I miss you. Sort of. I guess our kind of love wasn't the kind that would leave me drowning in depression. Would that really be called love?

The world feels detached now, and you were part of the world. You _were _the world, but then you died and I had to move on.

_I could barely read the paper now. Why did I keep writing? I didn't want to face the ghosts._

Is this truly moving on? I don't have much of a life now. It's not exciting, and you may not have acted exciting, but you were interesting.

I always thought the girl I fell in love with would be passionate and thrilling and make me feel like I was constantly on adrenaline. Well, that didn't happen.

You were like paper. You looked fragile and plain, but you could create anything.

And no offense and all, but you were kind of fragile in a couple ways. Still tough in most aspects, though. You never complained about anything.

Okay, I miss you.

_I crossed out the last line, but I could see it anyway._

This is the last time I'm talking to you, Madge.

Gale

* * *

_My fingers were trembling as I folded the paper into the familiar shape of a crane. I struggled for a few seconds—ithad been a long time since I'd created anything but destruction. I still remembered the firebombs that killed Prim._

_I dropped the crane into my fireplace, watching the paper smolder into ashes. A dead crane. Then it would get to a dead Madge—adead world. _

_One that didn't exist._

_I turned and walked away from the fire, knowing this was the last time I would ever acknowledge the past. Even Madge wasn't worth it._


End file.
